


Tony Stark, Child of Death

by ineffablesheep



Series: To be (finished) or not to be (finished) [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Afghanistan, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Child Death, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death will give him one one day, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, I'd rather over tag something like this than leave something untagged, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, MIT Era, Maria Stark's Bad Parenting, Not Beta Read, Protective Death, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Stillbirth, Temporary Character Death, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony dies in some really unpleasant ways, Torture, Underage Drinking, repeated character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29778738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablesheep/pseuds/ineffablesheep
Summary: Perhaps then, it thought, it would try the other hand. Kneeling, Death reached out its metal arm and offered its hand to the boy. This time he reached forward and tentatively took one of Death's metal fingers between his own small, slightly scarred ones. Tiny fingers traced the plates and the grooves between, as Death eyed the red hand print spread across the small face and the broken circuit board on the floor. "I remember you." The boy looked up at Death with a frown. "I couldn't breathe and then you were there. Who are you?""I am Death." The boy looked confused for a moment, then nodded to himself as if having made up his mind. He held out his own hand for Death to shake."It's nice to meet you Mr Death, my name is Tony." Tony. Despite the sporadic check-ins during the boy's life Death hadn't learned the name of its child. A mistake, it thought. It would have to pay more attention to the ch- to Tony. With that in mind, Death carefully took Tony's hand in its flesh one and shook it gently."It is nice to meet you too, Tony. Even though we have met before." It amended.---------In which Death has possession of Bucky's body and adopts Tony Stark as its child
Relationships: Death & Tony Stark, Death (Marvel) & Tony Stark, Edwin Jarvis & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes & Tony Stark, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark
Series: To be (finished) or not to be (finished) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188686
Comments: 11
Kudos: 48





	Tony Stark, Child of Death

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS AND THIS NOTE PLEASE
> 
> If you feel I've missed a tag, please tell me cause this is a whole lot of Not Good and I'll add it - the last thing I want to do is hurt someone with this fic. It's not what I usually write so please be careful.
> 
> This is tagged as Marvel's Death but since the Death in this fic is more an OC of mine than the actual Marvel character, you may want to consider it OOC
> 
> Again, please read the tags

Death had seen the sight before it more times than it cared to count. The crying mother, the pleading husband, desperate nurses and frantic doctors. So many breaths desperately trying to fan a weak spark into enough of a flame that Death would be warded off. And usually, Death would wait till the absolute last moment before letting its power claim the little spark, because with such will behind it those breaths often worked.  So it sat and waited, and the spark slowly faded. And it had kept waiting until it decided something must be wrong. This would require a more personal claim.

The mother barely glanced at the too quiet bundle, more interested in carrying on the gossip between herself and the nurses that labour had  interrupted. The father had been back in his office before the doctor had made the call, that sorry sir, your son is stillborn. 

A cool breeze swept behind Death as it crossed the room to the cot tucked away in the corner. The doctor and nurses and the woman who should have been called mother tugged their scrubs and blankets tighter and glanced at the closed windows. Death stared down at the child, wrapped clean and tidy in a blanket. Deep in the body Death could feel warm embers of life. Something in it seethed. Life was precious and this  _ new-born  _ was being neglected right from the start. The child needed  _ someone  _ in his corner.

Death's scythe shimmered into the plane and it gave it a slight twitch. The father continued working and the mother rested and chatted away.

In the cot in the corner, the baby  hiccupped , drew its first breath and screamed.

\---------

In the beginning, Death never had a body. It just was. It wrapped itself around the world, occasionally taking a more direct interest when matters  required, or curiosity demanded. Then it came time for James Barnes to die and he just  _ wouldn't _ . The first couple of times Death felt the lone soul begin to drift it had idly extended its power only for the man to be yanked from him grasp. The third time it happened, Death began to take interest.

It watched, as over and over James Barnes' was forced to the edge of his mortality before being dragged kicking and screaming back to the world of the living. Eventually, it was drawn to him so frequently it decided to be done with it and claimed Barnes - along with it his body. Death was supposed to be a respite, not a torment. Barnes wasn't quite dead, but he was safe.

Hydra thought they'd succeeded. Their Winter Soldier never failed a mission, never hesitated a kill. Just to be safe though, the Soldier was wiped and frozen. There had been enough issues breaking the body into the Soldier. No one wanted a repeat.

And since Barnes was tucked away safely, his body in stasis, well – Death had the chance to go wandering.

\--------- 

The next time Death saw the boy, he was barely a toddler, covered in puppy fat and struggling to breathe through the bag that had been placed over his head to blindfold him. The child was bound tightly in the back of a plain coloured van, as two men sat and argued about something. Death did not care for them. It was focused on the boy whose lungs were gasping for help. There was tears too, it noted.

The men argued.

The boy gasped.

And suddenly the boy was Death's to claim, sitting there in the van looking so scared. He didn ’ t do anything. Just sat there and shivered. There were old bruises on his arms, it noted, layered beneath newer ones that Death thought might be from the floor of the van.

After observing the boy for a while it began to hum, a soundless tune that seemed to settle the child. Eventually its mind turned back to the mortal world just to catch the men phoning about a ransom. It was to be paid, by a Howard Stark, and the boy didn't know whether to be more or less frightened at those words, Death observed. So it sat with the child till the men fled and sirens arrived, before relinquishing its claim on the boy and let him wake in his body. He'd be struggling to breathe again soon, but he'd be found before then.

\--------- 

The child didn't make a sound as Death stared down at him, face still covered in snot and tears. He was small for his age, fluffy brown hair and big brown eyes and bruises. Pyjamas covered in pictures of a man in red, white and blue with a star. A strange pattern but perhaps the boy liked them. Death reached out his flesh hand but the boy flinched away. 

Perhaps then, it thought, it would try the other hand. Kneeling, Death reached out its metal arm and offered its hand to the boy. This time he reached forward and tentatively took one of Death's metal fingers between his own small, slightly scarred ones. Tiny fingers traced the plates and the grooves between, as Death eyed the red  hand print spread across the small face and the broken circuit board on the floor.

Without realising it, the boy had stepped into the reach of Death's arms.

"I remember you." The boy looked up at Death with a frown. "I couldn't breathe and then you were there. Who are you?"

"I am Death." The boy looked confused for a moment, then nodded to himself as if having made up his mind. He held out his own hand for Death to shake.

"It's nice to meet you Mr Death, my name is Tony."

Tony. Despite the sporadic check-ins during the boy's life Death hadn't learned the name of its child. A mistake, it thought. It would have to pay more attention to the  ch \- to Tony. With that in mind, Death carefully took Tony's hand in  its flesh one and shook it gently.

"It is nice to meet you too, Tony. Even though we have met before." It amended.

"Why are you here, Mister Death?"

Death gently cupped the back of Tony's head and traced the cracked indent in the small skull, the blood still tacky. It eyed the corner of the coffee table as it picked out its words.

"Because you needed me." Tony barely flinched at the careful touch to his skull but nearly pulled away at that.

"Starks don't need anyone. Starks are made of iron." 

"No," Death murmured softly, still tracing the cracked bone. "You are flesh, and bone and muscle. That is far greater than iron. Iron is … thoughtless, inflexible. You are not, Tony." Tiny creases appeared between Tony's brows as his fingers began to trace their way up Death's arm again.

"That's not what Howard says." But there's a thoughtful tilt to his head as he reaches the red star engraved on the shoulder. "Why do you have a star?"

Death shrugged. It'd never really bothered to  wonder; the star had been there  as long as the arm had  been and served no function beyond decoration. The mortals that 'controlled' the soldier made no reference to it.

"Captain America has a star. His is white," Tony told him, gesturing to the print on his pyjamas. The figure - Captain America - did indeed have a white star, one on his chest and one on the shield he carried. "Howard says that captain America is the greatest man in the world, and that I should be like him." He goes back to tracing the red star. "He also says that if I'm bad then Captain America will punish me, when I'm stupid and weak." The last words trailed off into a whisper. No. That would not happen.

"Tony," Death said firmly, "this Captain America, he is no better than any other mortal on this plane. He is not judgement. You are  mine and have been since the day you were born. Do not forget that."

\----

From what Death had gleaned from the conversation around him, Howard Stark hadn't paid. In a moment of thoughtless  rage he'd soon regret, one of the men had pushed a bound and blindfolded Tony Stark down a flight of stairs. Dressed in the same pyjamas as the last visit, the tiny body gave one last twitch before Death twitched its scythe.

This time, Tony didn't say anything, just clung to Death and refused to let go of its arm. Death carefully held him tight. The body beneath its hands was still so small and breakable, surely a child of Tony's age would have outgrown those pyjamas by now? They'd been decorated since Tony last died though. Each and every white star on the pyjamas had been carefully coloured in with red ink, nearly the same shade as Death's own star. Something stirred in its chest - Barnes perhaps? - and left a warm feeling behind its ribs.

"You coloured your stars red;" was all it could say. The boy's cervical vertebrae clicked as he nodded, still silent. "Why?"

Later, once the boy was back with his caregivers and the man had fallen down as many flights of stairs as seemed fitting, Death made its way somewhere quiet. Carefully tucked into the plating of its metal arm was a piece of paper. The outside was marked in pencil smudges and addressed to 'Mr Death' in what was already becoming tidy drafter's print. If anyone had been there to see, one corner of Death ’ s mouth twitched up in what might be considered a smile. Death tucked it safely away in a pocket that didn't exist on the Winter Soldier's uniform.

\--------- 

Any feeling of excitement at going to school for the first time was dampened at the sight of other children and their parents. He was too old for tutors, Howard had told him, and it was high time he grew up, stopped lazing around the house and did some work. He had been doing work, he ’ d told him, designs clutched to his chest, but the bruises to his ribs had informed him otherwise. So here he was at boarding school.

Jarvis had dropped him off and helped him get his suitcase up to his dorm. The butler had worried about a draft that circled the room, but Tony hadn’t felt anything. Jarvis had pulled him into a gentle hug that Tony didn ’ t want to leave. But Jarvis had to, or Howard would be mad at him for being late and babying Tony and that would be bad for Jarvis. In the back of his mind the sight of all the other kids surrounded by their parents, laughing and talking and crying goodbyes, sat heavy.  So what he didn ’ t have a mum and dad, he had Jarvis. No one was better than Jarvis.

Maybe he could make friends here, people who he could talk to about his ideas and invent things with. Mr Death didn ’ t count, or at least that ’ s what Jarvis said. He ’ d looked so sad when Tony tried to tell him about the man with the awesome metal arm that he’d met. Told Tony he wasn’t real, that he was a part of his imagination but that was okay, Master Tony. Sometimes we all need a friend.

\--------- 

He didn’t go home at midterm, no one showed up to take him out to the movies or dinner. No one asked about it, why he was alone. By the end of year holidays, when Jarvis rang to let Tony know his parents were going away and taking Jarvis with them, Tony accepted it. School was awful, he was struggling not to zone out as teachers droned on about things he already knew, and none of the other kids wanted to talk to a nine year old. They were teenagers: too old to play with a baby, pushed him around until they wanted something from him. He learnt that one the hard way. And no matter how good his grades Howard wasn ’ t happy.

School wasn ’ t so bad, Tony decided, when you were the only kid left there over the holidays. The library was always blissfully empty and he could push together as many tables as he wanted. Drafting paper stretched across his little paradise, pencil lead on his hands. He didn’t need friends. He was nearly ten now. It was time to stop useless wishing and all those baby things. Mr Death was wrong, he was made of iron and didn ’ t need anyone. But if he wanted to come and visit … maybe Mr Death was lonely too.

\--------- 

James Rhodes was three-quarters of the way through his first year at MIT and half way through a bottle of cheap vodka when he saw a kid sitting on the kitchen bench. It had to be a kid, the boy looked like he was twelve, as he giggled and swayed from side to side. The woman next to him looked familiar, Sunrise? Sunshine? Fuck, who cared. Something seemed off though, why was she handing him her glass? The amber liquid made the kid cough and splutter but she kept the glass to his mouth till he was forced to swallow.

Vodka in hand, Rhodes made his way across the dining room and into the kitchen. The woman glanced over at him and grinned. Off to one side were half a dozen calc majors that Rhodes shared a class with. The men in the corner were arranged like an audience, engrossed in the sight before them. Up close, the boy looked even younger as he giggled and gazed up at the woman before him. That slightly expectant look was unsettling. Like, like, yeah, like a dog waiting for praise. This was so wrong. There were some genius teenagers at MIT, but IQ didn’t mean you should shove alcohol down them for kicks. Well, if the calc guys weren ’ t  gonna step in…

\--------- 

Rhodes dumped the kid on his couch and wobbled his way through to his own kitchen. Well, corner of his room that had a freezer and blessed frozen peas. He pressed them to his left eye and grabbed aspirin and a large glass of water. The kid, fuck he needed to find out the little dude’s name, was still lying where he’d been left. He ’ d managed to get a little upright which was impressive with how far gone he was. Sitting down on the coffee table in front of the kid, he held out the painkillers and water.

“ Right, you, are going to get a couple of these and all of this in you. After that, I want to know why the hell I shouldn ’ t take you to the hospital to get your stomach pumped. How old are you anyway? You ’ re not old enough to drink. ” Rhodes felt sick, having to hold the water to the kid ’ s mouth just like Baine, just to get him to drink and take the pills. But the kid couldn’t stop giggling long enough to focus and take the glass. When that was finally over, the kid looked at him with a grin and slurred words.

“My name, name is Tony. And, and, and, she she’s my friend. Sshe said so;” he nodded to himself as he swayed back and forth.  “ I ’ m not a kid, nope, not a, not a baby.  ‘ M fourteen.” Fourteen, fucking Christ, and that woman was pouring booze in him like a piece of shit. Screw that, she was a piece of shit. Tony was still babbling away, matter of fact, about his dad and a broken wrist and the last time he messed up. Wait, hold up-

Tony was tucked up asleep on the couch at last, and Rhodes - or “Rhodey ” as the kid seemed to insist - wanted a drink. Scratch that, maybe a couple. The young teenager hadn ’ t stopped babbling and slurring away till he’d exhausted himself and Rhodey had pieced together just who Tony was. Fuck Howard Stark, fuck him for the way Tony had flinched when Rhodes had tried to tuck the duvet in around him. And fuck everyone at that party who ’ d given him alcohol or turned a blind eye. He’d left his vodka all over the shirt of the calc major who'd tried to stop him taking Tony away and didn't have anything remotely drinkable left. Coffee it was then.

With a cup warming his hands he sat himself down on the coffee table in front of Tony and looked over the kid as he slept. There wasn't any bruising that he could see but plenty of scars, particularly across his hands and maybe even onto his palms. There were a couple near his hairline and a surgical scar that looked eerily  like the one his cousin had after a spiral fracture. He downed a mouthful of too-hot coffee and tried to ignore his stomach rolling. He'd try keep an eye on Tony.

The second time Tony crashed on Rhodes' couch was a week later with a stomach full of Jager bombs and silence on his tongue. Rhodey managed to grab the kid from the party he'd made it into and haul him out. Not that the dam kid made it easy. Bain hadn't been in the picture this time, instead Tony had been downing drinks like there was no tomorrow. This carried on for another two months before Rhodey sat a drunk Tony down on what was quickly becoming his couch.

"Why the hell do you do this to yourself? The first time, with Sunset, I think I understood. But this? You're just hurting yourself Tony. You're fourteen, you're too young to be drinking even if you're at MIT. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"What the fuck would, would you care?" The teen spat. "What do you want from me, huh? Money? Access to Howard? What is it? Cause you're not gonna get it by stopping me from drinking. My parents don't give a fuck about me. Stop wasting your time Rhodes."

Something in the teenager seemed to collapse inwards at that and he fell silent. Rhodes couldn't get another word out of him that night. They went through their routine, Rhodes getting painkillers and water into Tony and getting him comfortable in the recovery position on his couch before letting the genius pass out. Tonight had been one of the better nights; up until Tony started crying.

He wasn't loud, but Rhodes' room was small enough it didn't have to be to hear Tony's voice. The soft whimpers broke through the tired fog of Rhodes' brain and he huffed. Great, now he'd have to figure out what had woken the kid up and then get him back to sleep. Abandoning his  half-made coffee on the bench, he discovered Tony still asleep. Standing at the edge of the coffee table, Rhodes paused as the blanket-ball of genius shook with tears. "Please Mister Death."

What?

_ Please Mister Death, come back. What do I have to do to see you again? _ The words branded themselves in Rhodes' mind, stirring up the unsettling feeling that he'd been on to something earlier. What the hell should he do? In the end, he hadn't woken Tony up.  Instead he'd fetched his coffee and settled on the couch next to the kid. Tony flinched at the gentle hand on his head and Rhodes added yet another point to the list of reasons to hate Howard Stark, but after a few minutes Tony relaxed and let Rhodes run his hand through his hair. Gradually, the tears stopped and only the occasional snuffle for 'Mister Death' could be heard.

Rhodey never mentioned that night to Tony. They woke up on the couch together the next morning and before long they were inseparable. Tony moved into  Rhodey's dorm room the year after. He finally convinced his friend to stop drinking, even if he couldn't stop Tony from doing risky shit. ‘Mister Death ’ was never mentioned again, but sometimes  Rhodey could have sworn that if Tony had had a rough day, their room was that little bit colder with a soft draft blowing through closed windows. And wherever Tony had curled up to sleep - his bed, the couch,  Rhodey's bed, a quiet corner of the campus library - the blankets would tuck themselves that little bit tighter around the genius. But his mum always said he had a vivid imagination.

\--------- 

Tony buried his parents on a beautiful sunny day surrounded by Stark Industries higher-ups and his uncle Obi. He didn't cry. The reporters on the hill would capture that on film and sell it to the highest bidder; that Tony Stark didn't cry for his mum and dad but he didn't care. Nothing mattered. Howard and Maria were gone in an accident and that was it. Everything was over. No more neglect, no more 'accidents', no more whisky-breath and yelling. Howard was going down in history as one of the greatest minds and brilliant men, while the priest droned on just long enough to make sure that Maria's social life and  odd bit of charity  weren't forgotten.

_ He’d already buried Jarvis the month before, surrounded by Rhodey and grey clouds that threatened to rain. Reporters weren't there to capture the crying mess that Tony became as his surrogate father was lowered into the ground. There had been flowers on the coffin with a card from ‘the Stark family’ that Tony had shredded before Rhodey could stop him. When he’d returned to the mansion Howard had sneered at tear-drowned eyes and told him once again, that  _ Starks are made of iron _ so stop your useless tears, boy. _

The mansion was quiet when he returned this time. The silence was nauseating, filling the enormous house with a judgemental echo. No Jarvis to greet him, no Howard or Maria to avoid. Just himself.

He stripped out of his good clothes and before he knew  it he's sitting in front of the coffee table that he'd cracked his head on when he was four, the second time he'd met Mister Death. It's solid hardwood, an ugly thing that's been passed down through the family most likely. He rubbed his thumb over the sharp corner. There was a slight stain that matched the scar that ran invisible along Tony’s scalp unless you knew to look. No one bothered to look at the stain or at a four-year-old Tony. He’d woken up alone on the ground. It could have been a dream if not for the coffee table being slightly  tacky, and the pillow tucked carefully under his head.

Those same gentle hands had taken his parents though. Had taken  _ Jarvis _ . It was an awful car accident, closed casket and everything. Jarvis hadn’t suffered at least, according to the doctors. An aneurysm. Quick and painless. Could Death kill people? Or did he just collect souls or whatever? If so, why couldn't he have taken Howard and Maria sooner, stopped the beatings when he was forced to come home? Was Tony a bad person for wanting his  parents dead? Were they even his parents with the way they'd treated him?  Rhodey , wonderful, brilliant  Rhodey had spent a long time convincing him that that wasn't how families were supposed to be, even taking him to visit  _ his _ one break. He’d only agreed the once. Jarvis had basically been his dad though. And, if Death had a choice, did he  _ have  _ to take him too?

Tony had hated this coffee table for years now, but maybe of everything in the mansion it'd be one of the few things he'd keep. It's the only evidence to show that Death was real, not something his concussed brain had made up to comfort him as a child. He was an adult now; he was seventeen and it wouldn't be long before he had to take SI over from Uncle Obi. But, if Death was a childhood dream, what harm was one last moment of pretend?

Alone in the house, Tony leant back against the piece of shit that had cracked his head open and cried. A cool draft wrapped around him as the solid lines of the table braced him like a metal arm would. It was over.

\--------- 

The mission was complete. No, it wasn’t the best replica of a car crash and it’d seen plenty of them to know but its handler’s criteria had been fulfilled. Howard and Maria Stark were  dead and it would be easy enough to pass for an accident with a little bit of misdirection and that wasn’t Death’s job. It’d used the Winter Soldier’s body to kill the couple and then claimed them with a harsh swing of its own scythe. If it was a little rougher, a little slower than it usually was, no one was going to know. Tony Stark was  _ Death’s _ and it didn’t appreciate people hurting what belonged to it.

It watched over the funeral, watched as Tony watched with dry eyes. It would have liked it if his person’s friend, Rhodey, was there to comfort him but it seemed that wasn’t allowed. It had taken the only other person Tony had in his life a month before, an old man named Jarvis. It had been quick, gentle. The man had treated Tony well, even if he hadn’t protected him from his parents.

Now it watched as its child curled up against the table that had once killed him and cried. Death couldn’t touch the  living but it wrapped its power around the shaking body and held tight.

\--------- 

When Tony woke in hospital it was to Rhodey's terrified and cranky Mother Hen face and the feeling of cool metal fingers on his cheek.  _ They had to pump your stomach, Tones,  _ his brother tells him _. You’ve got to stop doing this, this isn’t college anymore. _

Once he'd finally managed to break out of hospital - AMA of course - the front page of the paper screams  _ Tony Stark: Billionaire Playboy's Birthday Ends in Flames _ while another parades his accomplishments compared to Howard's at the same age of twenty-five.

\--------- 

He woke up on his workshop floor with bruising down his arm and ribs and a cold draft circling him. Dum-E hovered nearby with his fire extinguisher as Jarvis did he best to convince the unruly bot not to dowse their dad in foam. Butterfingers and U were in the corner doing who knew what. Butterfingers was probably causing trouble, his crafty little girl liked to trick her older brothers into all sorts of mischief, maybe she'd collaborated with J to mess with the aircon. What had he been doing? Right, chemicals. Something to do with the newest missile that R & D just couldn't get quite perfect enough for mass production. He really must have taken a knock. Tony stood with a wobble and felt the back of his head. No blood, just a bruise then. The bench he'd been working on was a write-off, along with his freshest cup of coffee.

"Back to work Jarvis; and bring that temperature back up! Play time is over."

\--------- 

Howard Stark might have gone down in history as one of the greatest minds but it was easy to see that Tony Stark was far beyond anything his father was capable of. And if that wasn't satisfying, then Tony didn't know what was. Life was good. He had Rhodey and Pepper, plenty of drink and plenty of sex and could design whatever the fuck he wanted. Well, Obi would huff and sigh but at the end of the day the board of directors couldn't see the future out of a wet paper bag and his designs made the company richer than ever so hey, who cared?

Rhodey apparently. His platypus was such a worry-wart. This whole parade was routine at this point. Fly to the middle of nowhere aka wherever the US government considered to be a good test site, make a speech, something jazzy, demonstrate the weapon, celebrate then return home after some unpleasant but necessary shmoozing.

He should have taken the Hum-Drum-Vee.

\--------- 

Tony  didn’t know how many times he died on Yinsen's makeshift operating table, or how many hands held him in place while the doctor cut through bone and sifted through the muscles of his chest for shrapnel. He can remember a man though. He had the palest grey eyes that shivered like a storm when Tony felt his heart stop and a gorgeous metal arm that he'd pay to get his hands on. Eventually, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

Words were thrown around above his head and a light fixated on his face. Everything hurt, his ribs felt like fire and was that a camera? Where was the man with the arm? Rhodey?

Maybe he could sleep again…

\--------- 

He didn’t need Yinsen to translate to know what that smile meant. But this wasn’t an uppity, power-hungry board member, this time he  was in real trouble . As his head was forced under the water yet again, Tony felt his body jerk when the  battery  keeping him alive short-circuited and he breathed water into his lungs. The hands on him let up for a moment, letting him sit up and watch as the men shouted amongst each other and haule d his head above the surface. Th e man sat in the corner, watching, still saying nothing. Was he the leader? A man thumped his body on the back and Tony rushed back in as he coughed up water . He barely got a chance to breathe before his head was under the surface again.

\--------- 

“Who are you?” he gasped , as wa ter filled his lungs. W i th out a sound, the man knelt next to the barrel and took Tony’s face in his hands . The gentleness surprised him, a sharp contrast against the harsh grip in his hair.

“I am Death,” w as all he made out before the man’s touch disappeared a nd rough hands forced him under.

\--------- 

“Who is the  man with the metal arm? Is he the leader?”

Yinsen looked up at him from where he was tending the fire, confusion blatant. The doctor was a godsend, hauling Tony up off the ground when the men dumped him back in their cell and wrapping him in one of the few blankets they had. 

“Which man?”

“The one with the metal arm, wears a lot of black leather, grey eyes, calls himself ‘Death’. Don’t know how you could possibly miss him.” He shouldn’t snap at the doctor, he knows that. It’s been a long day, and answers would be nice right now. Tony tugged the blankets tighter around himself as the cold took over his body and teased at the dregs of his energy. “It’s the left one, if that helps.”

“How long have you been seeing him?” He has the doctor’s full attention now, and his face has that awful kind of neutral expression that Jarvis always wore whenever Tony mentioned the imaginary friend he had as a kid. Or like when  Rhodey asked when he last had a drink.

“Since you put the magnet in my chest.” The back of his skull aches.  Yinsen is still staring at him, fire forgotten, and there’s nothing about him to suggest he’s lying when he at last responds. “There is no man with a metal arm here, Tony. I have been here a very long time and I haven’t seen such a man.” He still checks Tony’s temperature and for any head injuries before they settle in for the night though. Tony catches him staring at him over the next few days, when a silver flash in his peripheral has him snapping around to an empty cave.  The captivity and torture aren’t getting to him, he’s not going crazy. He’s not.

\--------- 

Someone finally got in a lucky shot, or maybe the armour was simply overwhelmed by the assault, but there was a sharp pain that disappeared as quickly as his body registered it. He stood, and his body remained on his knees. The men firing at him were frozen in – no, they were still moving like cold treacle, but they were moving. Light suddenly caught his eye and he blinked spots out of his vision. Where was- there, over by the edge of the camp. The man stood there and stared at him as the sun reflected off his arm and caught Tony in the eyes again. He took note of the camp, the men surrounding him and the weapons they shouldn’t have, then sank back into his body.

\--------- 

When Tony  landed he landed  _ hard. _ Half buried in the sand he tried to orient himself. His arm was broken, and something in his lower back and neck clicked in ways that brought red stars to mind. If he could feel his legs, he was sure they’d hurt just as much, judging by the angle one knee was twisted at. As much as he tried, he couldn’t grasp the memory before it faded. The sun was high and sharp, the sand course and rough, and fuck wouldn’t it just be so easy to close his eyes and sleep right now? Thankfully, before the pain behind his eyes could get much worse, a silhouette stepped between himself and the light and crouched above Tony. A hand – flesh – reached out before being retracted and a metal one offered in its stead. There was a star on the shoulder, a red one like his pjs used to have. Tony went to shake the outstretched  hand but the man carefully grasped his uninjured wrist instead and gave a gentle tug. With it, Tony was eased out of the sand and the pain vanished.

_ Who the fuck are you  _ he wanted to ask but it croaked out as “the fuck you?” 

“I am Death, and you Tony, are  _ mine _ .”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to post this when complete but unfortunately due to me being fed up with Marvel I'm posting what I have since I'd rather you lovelies enjoy it than let it rot in my drafts. I'm marking it as finished for that reason even though it technically isn't.
> 
> This was meant to be four 5k chapters that spanned Tony's birth to the fight with Thanos but it took on a life of its own. I have a page long timeline of Tony being killed in various ways all mapped out ffs, how Death would take on a parental role in its own way, how Bucky would respond to finding out Death has been borrowing his body to both protect him and Tony. And then Infinity War and Endgame happened and I just fell out of love with the MCU. If I come back to this, there will be Death and Bucky's POVs, dip into CATWS and the lead up to and focus on CACW. This was meant to be 15k of set up to Bucky and Tony being friendly, Thanos trying to snap Tony dead and Death going off like a feral PTA mum and ripping the purple bastard a new one while Bucky cackled in the distance and Tony questioned how this was his life. Oh, and Steve would be bitch slapped with a scythe. I wasn't kidding about the feral PTA mum thing.
> 
> So yeah, at this stage I might finish it, I might not. I'm salty and tired and have other works I want to tidy up enough to post before I get completely sucked into writing Star Wars/Mandalorian fics. This isn't the end of my MCU adventures, but its no longer all I'll write
> 
> Comments and kudos will be treasured,  
> Sheep x


End file.
